


The Baker Street Irregular

by Chrononautical



Series: A Complicated and Ineffable History [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a demon, Crowley uses government resources for personal reasons during wartime, Gen, Historical References, It's practically his job description, Literary References & Allusions, POV Outsider, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), The Blitz, The Famous Mister Crowley, What Crowley was up to during WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21693946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: Espionage, sabotage, and propaganda? Crowley is the most effective agent SOE has ever seen, and the strangest.
Series: A Complicated and Ineffable History [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1563790
Comments: 32
Kudos: 244





	The Baker Street Irregular

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiwuh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwuh/gifts).



> This story will make a lot more sense if you read [Blitzed Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21551512) first. 
> 
> In a way, this story is for kiwuh, who asked for more on Crowley's behalf. This is not what they meant, I am sure, but you can call it a promise that I'm not going to leave this story as a complete angst fest. I think it might be a trilogy with a post-apocalypse happy ending.

“That right there is exactly what I’m looking for.” Anderson whistled, making it clear that he was referring to the pull of Madge’s skirt over her bottom as she bent low to pull a folder from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. 

“Here,” he said, “let me help you.” Although she quickly lifted the folder she wanted and shut the drawer, it took her a minute to rise. He came over, putting a controlling hand on her hip. 

Slamming the tip of her cane down into his foot before knocking it against the back of his knee, Madge finished rising. Standing as tall as she could, she met his furious eyes coldly. “I am a member of the Special Operations Executive, Mister Anderson. I do not require your assistance.” With as much confidence as her limp would allow, she strode from the records room. Fortunately, she did not start trembling until she reached her own desk. 

Serving in the SOE was an honor. Madge was a Baker Street Irregular, and how many people could say that? After crashing her ambulance in Provence, Madge thought the war effort was done with her. Fate intervened. Now she was the best damn research analysts in British Intelligence. Not an easy job, but it was a vital one. Uncovering strategic advantages for the boys at the front, finding the levers to lift up the people being trampled by the Axis, sabotaging the enemy: that was the way to win this war, and Madge was going to do it. If she had to grind the tip of her cane into Mister Anderson’s shoe once a week when he cornered her somewhere, she would find a way to do ten times worse to the Jerrys. London was under bombardment. Madge could find a way to tolerate the agents who were going to end it. 

Not that Anderson was the worst of the lot. He was bad. All the girls knew what he did to poor Faye. But he wasn’t alone. Bradstreet spent hours outlining an operation as though the women working for him were incapable of speaking, let alone writing English. Martin didn’t trust anything done by a woman at all. Gregson was a bore, but at least he never assaulted anyone. Which was to say that Mister Anderson was definitely the second worst agent working for the SOE on Baker Street.

The worst was Mister Crowley. 

They said all sorts of things about him. If one listened to rumors, he’d flown a Lysander all the way through Poland taking so much fire the plane was swiss cheese by the time he landed. He’d lead a group of resistance fighters across the Alps for three weeks drinking only melted snow and eating rats. He’d done a parachute drop straight into central Germany without being spotted. They said he once locked eyes with Hitler himself and the Fuhrer was the one to flinch. 

Of course, Madge didn’t believe any of that. What she knew for a fact was that everyone from the RAF to the SIS was terrified of the man. Information he wanted was always top priority. If he asked about shipping lanes in the Indian Ocean, there would be U-boat activity in the area two weeks later. When he inquired about the political leanings of an MP, it happened to be days before that MP proved the deciding vote on an appropriations bill. Once, he bawled a woman out for working at something personal on her desk and she was never seen again. 

Some claimed he turned into a giant snake and ate Doris. Less fanciful people assumed she got the sack. Others said she’d been working at a crossword puzzle and whispered about a place called Bletchley. Doris would be in code breaking now, but they couldn’t say more because loose lips sank ships. Practical to the last, Madge went to visit the girl’s mother. Doris was alive, well, and called home every Sunday, so there was no need to have Mister Crowley up on charges. 

That didn’t make him safe. Mister Crowley was indisputably wealthy, given the flashy Bentley he drove. He was likely Oxbridge educated, just like everyone else in the SOE. Even Madge was a Girton girl. With his accent, he was indisputably English. All in all, there was nothing in the world more dangerous than a wealthy, educated Englishman, for which Madge was inexpressibly grateful. They were at war, after all, and he was on the right side. 

She still jumped when he bellowed, “Politics Girl! My office! Now!” 

One thing in Mister Crowley’s favor: she was Politics Girl. He seemed congenitally incapable of learning the names of his fellow operatives and the support staff who made their work possible. Martin, for instance, was Agent Airplanes, and Bradstreet was Gadgets Guy. Impolite as this was, Madge found she could forgive it; mostly because her own call sign was not Crutches or Scars. Annie was Sea Charts and not Irish. In fact, Mister Crowely was the only person in the office who never once commented on Annie’s accent. He didn’t care who anyone was, just what they could do for the war effort. 

That mattered less when he told her to close his office door. 

They said he was the most effective interrogator in the service. He once spent five minutes in the Tower of London with an unbreakable Italian spy, only to leave with detailed plans for the man’s entire network and the Italian in tears. Apparently, he understood pain in a way no one but a doctor should, and he wasn’t a doctor. They said he could get anything he wanted from anyone and barely ever have to ask. 

“What do you know about someone called Whimsy?” he demanded. “I can’t find anything in Debrett’s. Probably an impersonator, definitely passing himself off as a Lord.”

“Sir?” Madge stared at him. His office was spacious and dim, without any of the usual clutter agents seemed to accumulate. Despite the poor lighting, he still had dark glasses on, which hid his eyes and made threatening shadows across his face. 

“Whimsy, Politics Girl: I know you’ve got something.” 

“Do you mean Lord Peter Wimsey, sir?” 

“Probably.” The scowl on Mister Crowley’s face grew. “He’s not actually a Lord, is he? Why wasn’t he in Debrett’s?”

Knowing that he wouldn’t like the answer, Madge took half a step backward. With the closed door at her back, it didn’t help. “Well, sir, he’s fictional. From a series of detective stories.”

Surprisingly, Mister Crowley’s whole demeanor relaxed. Even the oppressive shadows filling the office seemed to retreat somewhat. “Of course he is. From a book, then? Right. There was a film couple years back. Bad reviews, though, I didn’t go.” 

“Yes sir.” Madge relaxed slightly as well, knowing it was probably a mistake to do so. 

Looking down at the single file folder on his otherwise pristine desk, Mister Crowley pretended to flip through it idly. “Do you like him? The character, I mean.”

Something tightened in Madge’s spine, sending a shooting pain down her mangled left leg. She thought about fast cars, great wars, spies, and men. “I prefer Poirot,” she said flatly. 

He looked up. For a moment, she almost saw the eyes behind his glasses. “Yeah? I saw _Black Coffee_ down at the Embassy when it opened. Pretty good stuff. Just enough farce to keep the murder and blackmail interesting. All the cup swapping was well done, at least.” 

Madge blinked. With great difficulty, she tried to imagine Mister Crowley doing anything as ordinary as going to the theater. Eventually, she realized he must have been younger then. As far as she could recall, the play was about a decade old. Everyone had a past, even the famous Mister Crowley. 

He turned back to the file on his desk. “So, Poirot’s the good one. I remember that much. He’s got manners, charm, and the little grey cells, right. Wimsey’s probably the opposite, I guess. All style no substance. Enough flash to be entertaining, sort of comic relief, I bet. Always pining away but never actually gets the angel.” 

If imagining Mister Crowley at the theater was jarring, feeling empathy for him was enough to make Madge look out the shuttered window for flying pigs. Even so, she reached the obvious conclusion regarding his behavior and took pity. “The reverse, sir.”

Mister Crowley glanced up over the rim of his glasses. His eyes seemed almost yellow in the shadowy office. “Eh?” 

“Girls love Lord Wimsey, sir, whether they’re on the page or reading it. He’s got the whole package: cars, money, titles, and especially women. By any account, he was both a dashing spy and a very considerate lover, sir. Affairs all across Britain and Europe. We used to read his books beneath the covers at school and sigh, especially when he met Harriet. Love at first sight, despite obstacles and adventures, of course sir. I believe they end up with three children.” 

“Love at first sight?” Despite having never seen the expression on his face before, Madge would later swear that Mister Crowley actually smiled. 

Greatly daring, she added, “If an angel compared you to Lord Peter, sir, I’d say she likes you very much.” 

The appalled expression on his face was absolutely worth the angry way he barked, “Back to work, Parker!” Proving that not only was he human, he actually knew her name. Madge suspected he knew the name of everyone in the office. Even the maids. 

“Yes, sir.” Grinning, she turned toward the door. 

“Parker.” Something dangerous in Mister Crowley’s tone stopped her hand in mid air, just before it could brush the knob. The shadows filling the office grew overwhelmingly dark, as though none of the noon sunshine filtering through the windows could make it past Mister Crowley. 

“Yes sir?” She didn’t turn back. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to have her life threatened if she gossiped, as though she didn’t have anything better to do. 

“Which one is it?” 

“Sir?” 

“Who is man in this office that has you so on edge about being propositioned you almost gave _me_ incomplete information?” 

Madge didn’t mean to say. She certainly didn’t look up as the word “Anderson” forced itself from her throat. Released by the shadows, she fled. 

Somehow, Madge wasn’t surprised when Anderson was sent on a field mission two days later. Or that she learned of his death within a month, though she wasn’t positive Mister Crowley arranged for the fatality. Either way, she never quite dared to spread the story of his humanity.


End file.
